


The Stanley Uris Challenge

by messwithlove



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Established Relationship, Multi, New Year's Eve, Smoking, Trans Ben Hanscom, if u squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:22:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28156758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/messwithlove/pseuds/messwithlove
Summary: Richie’s so fucking proud of himself as he takes Eddie’s hand, clasps it between both of his own like he’s holding a firefly he caught in the yard. Eddie’s seething. “Eddie, my love. You’re gonna kiss everyone. All the Losers. Tomorrow night, before midnight, you’re completing the Stanley Uris Challenge.”“Is this because I’m a little bit slutty?” Stan looks flattered, smiling coyly with a bite of leftover green beans on his fork.
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Bill Denbrough/Mike Hanlon, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Patricia Blum Uris/Stanley Uris
Comments: 10
Kudos: 102





	The Stanley Uris Challenge

**Author's Note:**

> happy holidays to slutty eddie kaspbrak and to all of you. this is very silly and very self-indulgent so please do not perceive me. thanks as always to alyce my rock my everything <3

They go up to Richie’s parents’ house for the first couple of weeks of winter break, Eddie having given up the pretense of maintaining a relationship with Sonia this close to the finish line, to graduation and adult jobs and the rest of their lives. They decorate the tree with Jane, and Richie attempts to teach Eddie the chanukah brachot over a menorah shaped like a stegosaurus, and Maggie lets them share Richie’s childhood bedroom. It’s overwhelmingly normal in a way Eddie isn’t used to.

They squeeze into Richie’s twin bed one night, knees knocking under the Star Wars covers, and Eddie rests his head on Richie’s chest, listens to the slow beat of his heart as Richie plays another stupid fucking Tik Tok on his phone.

“Growing up I always wanted a cat,” Richie says, tilting his phone screen toward Eddie and frowning. The cat on screen is watching the Grinch on a massive tv with rapt interest. “Jane’s allergic. Older sister ruining my fucking life, once again.”

“The evidence says otherwise,” Eddie reasons. He’s heard the stories. Relishes them, keeps them in a special place at the back of his head labeled _Richie has always been an insufferable asshole and I like him so much_. “Literally have two examples from tonight’s dinner alone to back this up.”

“Hearsay,” Richie shrugs. He taps the comment button, types out _I’d kill a man for this cat,_ hits send. “You can’t prove anything.”

The next video is mushy: two girls meeting for the first time at an airport, soft ukulele music over it with a caption that reads _meeting my gf for the first time after 8 months!!_ with a pouting, glassy-eyed emoji. The girls on screen cry and kiss and laugh and Eddie smiles, double-taps the screen. “That’s cute.”

“Patty got me on lesbian tok,” Richie says. The video starts over, and the girls crash into each other again, one of them holding the other’s face, kissing her girlfriend hard. “Ugh. I’m breaking up with you to be a Tik Tok lesbian. It’s not you, it’s my unbridled sapphic energy.”

Eddie’s brain is on an entirely different warpath as the video loops for a third time. He nuzzles closer into Richie’s chest, keeps an eye on the screen. The girls laugh, the ukulele music plays. “You know you’re like. The only person I’ve really kissed.”

Richie’s hand pauses at the back of Eddie’s head, fingertips grazing Eddie’s scalp. “Damn, Spaghetti. Were you saving that part for marriage, too?”

“Dickhead,” Eddie mumbles, prods at Richie’s side. Almost two years removed from his breakup with Myra, his face still goes hot at even the vaguest mention of that misguided relationship that lingered after high school, had him fucking miserable up at three in the morning on the east coast while Myra went to school out west, sapping his time and attention enough that his grades suffered for it. Eddie’s had a weird couple of years. “That doesn’t—I don’t want that to count.”

“Who’s counting?” Richie counters. “I’ve never seen a number in my life.”

“I just mean,” Eddie huffs, but stops. He doesn’t know what he means. Stan kissed him, once, drunk and grinning but still finding the time between grabbing Eddie’s face and mashing their lips together to ask if it was okay. Eddie had had enough drinks in him to not think twice before nodding. Later that night he used the very same mouth on Richie, in their bed. “It’s weird. You’ve like, dated people. I’ve only been in a mostly long distance relationship and then with you.”

Richie hums and it reverberates through his chest, against Eddie’s cheek. “This is a really roundabout way to slut-shame me,” he points out, lightly enough that anyone else might take it as a joke. Eddie knows better, but Richie bulldozes on, like acknowledging the possibility of it hurting beyond a dismissive mention will burn him. “I mean, do you _want_ to kiss other people?”

Eddie groans. He really doesn’t want to sleep on the couch downstairs, but it feels like that’s where this conversation is headed. “That’s not what I mean,” he says, muffled by Richie’s chest. 

“You can take your time,” Richie encourages.

It’s the sort of thought Eddie would normally ruminate on by going on a run, but his brain-to-mouth filter has a tendency to just fucking malfunction around Richie. He isn’t sure what he’s asking for, or what he wants from this conversation: too vanilla and too jealous for an open relationship, but the thought of kissing other people just to know what it’s like to kiss someone who isn’t Richie keeps replaying, obsessively, in his head. Instead of explaining himself, he digs his fingertips into Richie’s ribs, tips his head to peer up at Richie. “Can we forget I said anything?”

Richie stares back. Eddie can see him thinking, every minute little hint in his eyes magnified by his glasses. “We can talk about it another time,” Richie offers back, and that’s gonna have to be enough for Eddie, for now.

;

 **Neibolt HOE Owners Association**  
Tue, Dec 29, 11:03 PM

**Rich 💚**  
_hello house meeting when we get back in!!!_

**Stan the man** **  
** _I’m bringing back enough brisket to feed a small army_

 **Patty 💅 Blum** **  
** _Pls tell Andrea I love her_ _  
_ _Absolute legend_

 **Rich 💚** **  
** _extremely important business to be discussed_ _  
_ _BYOB (bring yr own brisket)_

_Guys Jane is my favorite Tozier_

**Stan the man** **  
** _Same_

 **Patty 💅 Blum** **  
** _Haven’t met her but same_

 **Rich 💚** _  
_ _this group chat is my supervillain origin story_

;

Back from their trip, Eddie can tell Richie’s plotting something as soon as he starts setting their wobbly table for dinner. Having handed Richie his mom’s instructions for reheating the brisket, Stan’s off to the train station to pick Patty up. Eddie sits on the ratty old couch in a thespian society sweatshirt he stole from Richie’s closet back home, attempting to dig into the latest issue of The Economist.

The minute Richie gets out his beloved set of McDonald’s Muppets glasses, Eddie sets the magazine down, relieved. “What are you doing?”

“We’re having a nice family dinner,” Richie says, setting Miss Piggy down at Eddie’s seat. “Figured we’d use the nice china.”

“When have we ever had a ‘nice family dinner’?” The closest thing Eddie can think of is ordering Thai and eating it on the floor in front of their tv when he finally got to the Game of Thrones finale. He watched the tv while Richie, Stan, Bev, and Bill mostly watched him yell at the screen.

“Let me do a nice thing for no reason,” Richie whines. Eddie can smell his bullshit from miles away. Richie knows this, but seems to have chosen not to acknowledge it, instead bounding over to drop a kiss on Eddie’s forehead. “I missed Stan and Patty. No ulterior motives.”

It’s not even an hour before the shoe drops.

Richie gingerly clinks his Gonzo glass with his knife, interrupting Stan mid-sentence. “Hello, yes, may I have your attention?”

“I knew it!” Eddie points an accusatory finger. 

Richie wraps his hand around it, gives it a yank. “I gathered you all here tonight—”

“You didn’t gather shit, this is my house,” Patty interrupts, mumbled around a mouthful of brisket.

“I _gathered_ you here,” Richie steamrolls on, “because I have a proposal to bring to the council ahead of tomorrow night’s New Year’s Eve party, at which all of the Losers will be in attendance.”

“Richie, you’re doing the thing where you talk in movie exposition again,” Stan sighs.

“Context is important,” Richie quips back. “So. Eds here, light of my life, fire of my loins, is near virginal aside from the corruption he’s undergone when going, well, under me.” Patty cackles. Eddie kicks Richie’s shin under the table. “He’s been _sheltered_ most of his life, and luckily ol’ me snagged him before he had a chance to get around the block.”

Eddie’s already making a mental plan: grab Richie’s car keys, get a clean kitchen towel to stop the bleeding, and take the slightly longer route with less traffic to the hospital once he works up the anger to stab Richie’s hand with a butter knife. Any moment now. “Richie,” he says, a warning.

“Listen, listen,” Richie continues, “while I’m not really comfortable with Eds taking a night out on the town with Bev and kissing random dudes, I came up with a challenge, and he’s gonna complete it tomorrow night.”

“Fucking _pardon_?” Eddie’s raising his voice now, looking at Patty and Stan and back at Richie.

Stan side-eyes Richie, quirking an eyebrow. “Go on.”

Richie’s so fucking proud of himself as he takes Eddie’s hand, clasps it between both of his own like he’s holding a firefly he caught in the yard. Eddie’s seething. “Eddie, my love. You’re gonna kiss everyone. All the Losers. Tomorrow night, before midnight, you’re completing the Stanley Uris Challenge.”

“Is this because I’m a little bit slutty?” Stan looks flattered, smiling coyly with a bite of leftover green beans on his fork.

“It’s because I’m pretty sure you’re the only one in the friend group who’s made out with all of our friends at least once. So yes, if you’re choosing to reclaim that word,” Richie nods. He turns back to Eddie, smiles beatifically. “Whaddaya say, Eddie Kay?”

The adult part of Eddie’s brain knows this is absolutely batshit. Richie has ideas like this all the time, bonkers but just feasible enough to make everyone around him doubt themselves, like a manic pixie dream Wile E. Coyote. At the same time, this is what drew him to Richie in the first place: his willingness to lean into outlandishness for the sake of it, an overactive imagination that just won’t fucking quit.

And Richie knows Eddie better than anyone else: Eddie’s competitive streak is aggressive and ruthless, and just by tacking on the word _challenge_ to his deranged little idea, he’s got Eddie hooked. 

Eddie narrows his eyes. “Why before midnight?”

“Neat little time horizon,” Richie shrugs.

“We’re gonna need a ref,” Patty’s grinning already. “I’ll be tough but fair.”

“Ground rules, too.” Stan sets his fork down, rests his elbow on the table and his chin on his hand. “Like—you can’t tell people that you’re doing it for a challenge. That ruins the vibe. Vibes are an important part of it.”

“Genius,” Richie nods. He pulls out his phone and starts a note titled _Stangela Challenge Rules_. “Are we assigning points?”

Stan shrugs. “Doesn’t seem necessary, but I’m open to suggestions. The kisses have to be mouth to mouth and on purpose, none of that tripping and falling mouth-first on people kinda shit. This isn’t a Hallmark movie.”

“You can’t be fucking serious,” Eddie looks around the table again. He squeezes Richie’s hand hard enough to make his knuckles crack.

“And you gotta kiss Richie last,” Stan adds. He leans over into Patty, tipping his head onto her shoulder. “I may be a little slutty, but I always come back to my girl at the end of the night.”

“Modern heterosexual love is fascinating,” Richie marvels, tapping away at his phone one-handed, the other still in Eddie’s clutches.

“I’m not above making you put money in the bisexual erasure jar,” Patty frowns.

“I can’t _do_ this,” Eddie says. A bit regretfully, he lets go of Richie’s hand. “I can’t just kiss a bunch of people. What if I get mono? Or herpes?”

“We share drinks all the time,” Richie shrugs. Before Eddie can object, he amends it: “ _I_ share drinks all the time and you make out with me; transitive property of cooties.”

Eddie gathers up his plate and silverware, stands up to head into the kitchen. “You’re all out of your minds. I can’t do this. End of discussion.”

Patty and Stan boo after him as he retreats. Eddie might stab Richie after all.

;

Richie brings it up again, later, curling into Eddie like a parenthesis as soon as he gets in bed. “You don’t have to do it if you’re not comfortable, but you said you’ve never kissed anyone else and I just thought it’d be like a safe way to just try it out. It’s like when your parents give you a glass of wine with dinner.”

Eddie has to consciously unclench his jaw. “My mother would’ve _never_ done that. Wine has sulfites. And alcohol.”

“You know what I mean,” Richie insists, but his shoulders deflate. “I’m sorry.”

Eddie turns on his side to face Richie. They’re close enough that Eddie can feel warm puffs of Richie’s breath against his mouth. They’ve lived together for six months and three and a half weeks, now. He never stopped keeping count. “Would you really be okay with it?”

Richie tangles their legs under the covers. “Theoretically? Yeah. It’s our friends. I’ve kissed like half of them.”

“Theoretically,” Eddie repeats. “In practice?”

“In practice I don’t know, but that’s the nifty thing about consent,” Richie smiles, a little crooked. “If anyone hates it then the challenge is off. And I get to kiss you at midnight either way.”

Eddie thinks for a moment. “If this blows up in our faces, I get to remind you this was your idea.”

Richie puts his hand on Eddie’s cheek, brushing the skin under his thumb. “Historically, I have the best ideas.”

“I seem to recall a story from Jane about crayons in bodily orifices,” Eddie grins, and Richie kisses him before that particular childhood anecdote can be retold.

;

Eddie can tell it’s gonna be an interesting night as soon as Bill and Mike walk into the house with arms full of liquor, loudly bickering about Everclear, sometime around 7.

Bev and Patty are making surprisingly quick work of stringing lights around the living room, carefully avoiding the dried, shriveled bundle of weeds Richie plucked up from the front yard a few weeks ago and optimistically labeled “mistletoe” in Sharpie across the piece of duct tape securing it to the kitchen door frame. In the kitchen, Stan works on a massive cheese board with what looks like one of everything he could find at Trader Joe’s, humming along to One Direction blaring from the living room.

“I’m literally just saying, I’m pretty sure if I tried to buy any amount of Everclear the person at the liquor store would be legally obligated to call my emergency contact,” Mike says. “Think of our poor livers.”

“I’m your emergency contact! You just think you’re hot shit because you _graduated_ ,” Bill quips back, but seems to lose his train of thought as soon as Mike sets his bags down and scoops Bill up, loudly kissing his cheeks.

“Annoying couple is here!” Eddie announces.

Ben snorts from his spot sitting by the tv, phone hooked to the aux. As if on cue, Richie steps out into the living room in a silk shirt patterned with green and pink cows, buttons undone down to his breastbone, chest hair peeking out.

“ _This_ one?” Eddie sighs, brings a hand up to rub between his eyebrows.

“It’s a party shirt! For the party.” Richie preens under the attention, tips his chin up when Eddie starts fiddling with his buttons, doing and undoing a couple like he can’t decide if he wants to deal with this particular distraction tonight. He’s on a mission, after all.

“You look ridiculous,” Eddie grumbles, no real bite behind it. He decides on one more button done up, rises to his tiptoes to kiss Richie, but Richie leans away just as fast.

“Rules, Eds!” Richie grabs Eddie by the shoulder, puts a finger up to his lips. “If Patty sees you you’re toast.”

Eddie feels a little silly lowering his heels. “That’s a stupid fucking rule.”

“It’s a stupid fucking game,” Richie shrugs, blows Eddie a kiss. Eddie mimes catching it and putting it in his front pocket, frowning. “Go, Casanova.”

While most people they know are still home for winter break, the house fills up quickly enough with random stragglers: fine arts kids who greet Bev with kisses on the cheek, a handful of Richie’s coworkers from the radio station, a small but loud contingent of the marginally more tolerable b-school bros from Eddie’s marketing lecture last semester.

By the time Eddie wanders into the kitchen for a cup of whatever sugary hell Mike and Bill concocted, he has to squeeze past a group of Ben’s rugby friends animatedly discussing the latest Taylor Swift album.

“How do we know this many fuckin’ people?” It’s quiet enough in the kitchen that he doesn’t have to raise his voice much, but he leans into Stan’s side a little just the same.

“You and I definitely don’t, my guy,” Stanley grins, raises his beer in one hand and a shard of Parmesan cheese in the other.

“I just didn’t know this many people were still in town,” Eddie says. He eyes the big Gatorade cooler full of party juice warily. He’s never been a fan of communal beverages. “When’s the last time Bill washed this thing out?”

“Definitely after Halloween but not sure beyond that,” Stan shrugs. “A little PJ won’t kill you.”

“Says the guy not drinking it.” Eddie decides on a compromise, cup in hand: he reaches for the half-full handle of vodka next to the cooler, pours himself a generous couple of shots, and throws that back first.

“There he is,” Stan nods, pats Eddie’s back cheerfully and offers him a Triscuit to chase with. Eddie tries not to overthink the way Stan’s hand lingers between his shoulder blades, warm. He’s gonna have to start somewhere.

“I have no idea how you do this,” Eddie admits, pours himself a cup of the pink garbage and returns to lean against the counter next to Stan, shoulders brushing.

“Stand in my kitchen and eat cheese? Like this,” Stan scoops up a glob of pepper jelly with a cracker, stacks a piece of gouda on top, and pops it in his mouth. “Easy. Lots of practice and Lactaid pills.”

“Fucking funny. I mean making out with everyone,” Eddie chews on the rim of his cup, takes a drink. It tastes like too much kool-aid powder in too little water, cloying and without a hint of the gallons of cheap liquor Mike and Bill poured in. Dangerous. “Like, how do you even get away with it?”

“If the vibe’s right you don’t need to ask.” Stan brushes the crumbs off his fingers at the front of his jeans, raises the same hand to Eddie’s jaw, folding sideways into Eddie’s space, and. After a beat, when it’s clear that he doesn’t intend to do all the work, Eddie leans in, takes a breath before closing the gap.

Eddie isn’t sure, off the bat, how far to take it, but Stan makes the decision for both of them: Stan’s tongue tastes like pepper jelly and beer and he’s gentle, even as the kiss amplifies the rush of warmth in Eddie’s chest from the shots and the sugary drink. And then Stan whines into Eddie’s mouth, a breathy little thing that startles Eddie out of it, pulling away wide-eyed.

Patty still has a hand in Stan’s hair by the time Eddie can put the pieces together. “Easy,” she says, twists her fingers at Stan’s crown, pops a piece of cheese in her mouth.

“Sorry about my asshole girlfriend,” Stan rolls his eyes dramatically, leans back into Patty’s chest.

“We’ve met,” Eddie coughs out something like a laugh, watching them over the rim of his plastic cup. He’s gonna have to drink more if he wants to win this thing in the next couple of hours.

“Not doing great in the Convincing Me Men Have Anything Bigger Than A Pea Between The Ears department here, dudes,” Patty says. “Did you get to anyone else yet, Eddie?”

“Just him,” Eddie frowns. “Stop judging me.”

“Literally my job,” Patty reminds him.

Stan tips forward again, drops a sloppy kiss on Eddie’s cheek before stage-whispering in his ear. “Bill’s super easy to kiss, too. If it wouldn’t be too weird for you and Mike. I dunno, you’re gonna have to kiss them both anyway. Good luck. Love ya.”

Eddie nods, slowly. Before he can overthink it, he knocks back the last of his PJ, leans over Stan’s shoulder, and plants a kiss on Patty, too.

“Sneaky!” Stan sounds delighted a few inches to Eddie’s right. Patty has something glossy and vaguely sticky on her lips, a little minty, and it leaves a tingle on Eddie’s mouth when he pulls away. He licks it off without thinking, and his cheeks warm under Patty and Stan’s twin gleeful looks.

Eddie needs another drink. “Was that okay?” He asks, carefully busying himself with pouring another cup, avoiding their eyes.

“For the purposes of the challenge it was entirely adequate, yes.” Patty rests her chin on Stan’s shoulder, one arm swung around his waist now. “That’s two out of seven.”

“You’re a good kisser, Eddie,” Stan adds, and Eddie has to hide behind his cup again. After all, this wasn’t the first time they’ve kissed, and Stan’s famously acquainted with the art form. “Good luck. Try Bill, trust me.”

Eddie refills his cup on his way out of the kitchen, tries not to stare when Patty crowds Stan against the kitchen counter and kisses across his jaw. Good for them.

He’s pretty sure he can hear Bill somewhere upstairs—surely up to no good, ignoring the _don’t fucking go in here_ sign taped to Patty’s bedroom door—but he wanders toward the front door instead, one arm futilely wrapping around himself in his sweater to brace for the cold when it’s quickly clear that he won’t be able to unearth his own coat under the pile that’s formed in the hall.

Richie and Bev and Ben are out on the porch, and when Richie spots him, he swaps a cigarette from one hand to the other so he can hold out an arm for Eddie. “Heeey, sugar. How’s the quest going?”

Eddie scrunches his nose but still curls up into Richie’s side, feeling like a little kid coming up to the parents’ table at a party. He takes a sip from his cup, rests his cheek against the plasticky outer layer of Richie’s down jacket. “Got Stan ‘n Patty.”

“Good start,” Richie nods. He turns his head sideways to take a drag from his cigarette. Eddie doesn’t have the heart to tell him it doesn’t make a difference. “Who’s your next victim?”

Off to the side, Bev’s wearing tall enough flatform sneakers that she can almost tower over Ben. She uses the added inches to her advantage, cornering him against the side of the house, drawing him into a heated kiss. Eddie can hear a muffled giggle from Ben mixed with a low hum from Bev. If he’s staring, it’s not like there’s anyone there to judge him but Richie.

Richie, who snaps his fingers and blows his lungful of smoke out up into the sky. “Earth to Spaghetti?”

Eddie turns his face into Richie’s chest, bites—unsatisfyingly—and gets a mouthful of wind-resistant fabric and fluff. “Stan said I should try Bill,” he mutters, frowns at the wet spot he left at the front of Richie’s jacket. He can see his breath in little puffs between them, mimicking the plume of smoke trailing from the end of Richie’s cigarette. He’s buzzed and needy, and he can’t fucking kiss Richie yet. Not if he wants to win this stupid ass game.

“Solid,” Richie nods. “And it won’t be too weird for you and Mike?”

“Stan said that too,” Eddie huffs. “It’s not any weirder than kissing anyone else, I don’t think.”

“You lived with the guy,” Richie shrugs. “I dunno.”

“Ben had this idea,” Bev’s voice is a little hoarse when she wedges into the conversation, a fresh, unlit cigarette dangling from her lips. A step behind her, Ben has pink cheeks and a swollen mouth, lit up by the glow of his cell phone. “We should’ve made you a punch card for this, Eddie.”

Eddie immediately turns to punch Richie’s arm. “I thought we weren’t supposed to tell people!”

“Nah dude, _you’re_ not allowed,” Richie drawls, takes one last drag before stubbing out his cigarette, dropping it in the jar on the top step. “The bylaws let me tell people, but if I’ve told someone you gotta get another person who doesn’t know first. I didn’t make the rules, I’m just here to enforce ‘em.”

“You _literally_ made the rules,” Eddie groans. He’s getting a little _too_ cold, which just heightens his annoyance. “You made that one up right now, asshole. I hate you.”

“Sorry, honey,” Bev shrugs, blows Eddie a kiss. Even if he can’t get them now, at least she and Ben should be an easy enough package deal later, especially now that they know.

Eddie sighs. “I’m going inside. Stop fucking my shit up, Rich, I swear to god.”

Richie kisses his temple, follows it with a light smack to the ass. Eddie’s wearing good butt jeans; at least _some_ of his fucking efforts are being appreciated. “Love you!”

Bev and Ben cheer for him as he steps back inside. Eddie takes a moment to flex his freezing fingers to try and get the feeling back in them, hops in place a little to shake off the cold. Standing alone in the entry hall, he’s suddenly aware of the pleasant little buzz in his head, the warmth in his chest that’s persisted despite the chill outside. He’s hitting his stride. He’s a little drunk, but in a nice way. A good way.

Idly, he wonders if Bill’s still upstairs. He’s pretty sure he hears a muffled yet distinctive cackle that dissolves into a coughing fit—the likeliest story is he got into Patty’s stash. Instead of following the sound, Eddie makes his way back to the living room, expertly avoiding getting roped into a conversation with a kid from one of his gen eds freshman year.

He’s pretty sure he’s out of the woods when he physically stumbles into Mike, their drinks sloshing in their cups. “Shit, hey—Eddie!”

Richie and Stan managed to get into his head, after all: faced with tall, broad-shouldered Mike and his familiar cologne and clean line-up and absolutely fucking disarming eyes, Eddie wonders for a moment if _any_ of this was a good idea.

His body gets ahead of his brain on this one: he grabs a fistful of Mike’s tidy button-down shirt, rises to his tiptoes, and presses their lips together.

While Mike’s startled for a second, he’s gracious enough to humor Eddie. Just as Eddie’s about to pull away—trying to process the fact that Mike’s definitely been drinking bourbon and Eddie can _taste_ it on his impossibly soft _lips_ and they were _roommates_ and oh god—Mike brings a hand up to the back of Eddie’s head, tilts the other way to bring a little more finesse to it. It’s brief but it’s good: Mike kisses with purpose, angling just right, a gentle thing with a hint of dampness before it’s over, before Mike pulls away.

His smile’s brighter than all the little lights Bev and Patty strung up around the living room, twinkling and blurry in Eddie’s peripheral vision. Holy hell, is Bill Denbrough a lucky bastard. “What’s this? Did you contract whatever makes Stanley the way he is?”

Eddie’s brain is nowhere to be found. “Something like that,” he says. Downs what’s left in his cup.

“Where am I in line? He’s not usually a one-off guy,” Mike laughs. Eddie realizes, belatedly, that Mike’s hand is still lingering on the back of his neck.

“Number three? I, uh. He and Richie and Patty made a whole challenge out of it. It’s stupid.” Eddie’s shame is the first thing to return to his body, face going hot. “But like, I gotta get everyone before midnight and I was gonna go for Bill next; they told me I should ‘cause no offense, but he’s kind of easy, and then I chickened out and got nervous about it being too weird with you and then I saw you. Walked into you. Whatever.”

Mike nods slowly. His hand finally moves down Eddie’s neck to give him a friendly pat on the shoulder. “Nah. I think Bill will be flattered. I certainly am, man.”

“Cool. Cool.” Eddie glances up at Mike with an odd little prickle rising on his forearms. Embarrassment and gratitude and disbelief rattle around inside his chest. He clears his throat. “Anyway, uh. Thanks?”

“You’re welcome, Eddie,” Mike grins, ducks his head. He looks... bashful? Eddie can’t fucking believe this guy. “And it’s not like you asked, which I love, but you _do_ have my blessing to kiss my boyfriend.”

Eddie’s face goes, impossibly, even warmer. Jesus, he was only just freezing his ass off outside and he’s already weighing taking his sweater off. “I think I gotta go drink about this. Thanks again for the, um.” He waves a hand between them.

“Uh huh.” Mike hasn’t stopped smiling; Eddie can see it in his eyes even as he takes a drink. Okay. That’s three.

From there Eddie beelines for Richie’s bedroom. The doorknob is tricky enough that they didn’t even need to lock the door; he jiggles and pulls, halfway out of his sweater, and kicks the door shut behind him. He peels off the sweater, finally, and drops it on top of Richie’s still-packed suitcase from home.

This has been his bedroom, too, for almost seven months now. A convenient summer stay turned into a convenient arrangement for senior year, and Richie was happy—eager—to make room for Eddie here just as they’d both made room for each other in their friend groups, in their lives. But in seven months, Eddie hasn’t shaken the habit of calling it Richie’s room in his head. The posters on the walls are Richie’s, as are the majority of the clothes bursting from the closet. But there’s bits of Eddie scattered around, too: a neat little dresser, only a few months old, from an Ikea trip in August; an aloe plant perched at the top of the bookshelf; the lamp on the nightstand. Eddie flicks it on, lets himself fall backwards on the bed.

It’s nice enough, for a moment, to stare up at the ceiling and listen to the muffled bass of what he’s pretty sure is a Lorde song playing from the living room. His t-shirt’s sticking to his back with sweat, a bit. The bedsheets smell like Richie, and Eddie indulges in the quiet and dim, draws Richie’s pillow into his chest and breathes in.

Three down, three to go, and then Richie. Eddie licks his lips like he can still taste his friends there.

He’s not sure how long he lies in bed staring at the ceiling, but his phone buzzes in his pocket, a message from Marshmallow 💋 at 11:19. _i hid jello shots in the lacroix fridge, we makin out yet or what?_

 _It’s on_ , he texts back, gets to his feet and stands in front of the closet. He peels the sweaty t-shirt off and pulls on one of Richie’s shirts, plaid and too big on his shoulders. He looks at himself in the mirror on the door and tucks the front, undoes a button. Now he has a bit of Richie to bring along. He has less than an hour and he’s gonna fucking win.

Eddie meets Bev by the Lacroix fridge—Stan’s minifridge from his freshman dorm, now carefully packed full of assorted flavors of sparkling water—and hopes to fuck Bev won’t comment on the outfit change.

“You changed,” she says immediately. She has a stack of tiny plastic cups in one hand, bright blue. “Is that Richie’s?”

“We share a closet. I thought you weren’t doing single use plastics anymore, turtle-hater,” he narrows his eyes at her.

“The turtles will forgive me for party rocking,” Bev says, then looks over her shoulder. “Ben? Babe!”

“Is this gonna make things weird between us?” Eddie asks.

“I actually noodled on this earlier, you know, and ultimately I don’t think we’re going too far beyond our base level of weird, no,” Bev shrugs. She pops the plastic lids off the shots, carefully balanced in her palm, and sticks her finger in them to unstick the sides. Edddie knows she’s doing it to fuck with him the minute she glances up through her novelty tinsel lashes, brings her finger to her mouth to lick the jell-o off the underside of her glittery acrylic nail.

“Hello, Eddie Kay. Hello, Party Bev,” Ben says, dropping a kiss on Bev’s temple and taking a jell-o cup from her hand.

“So who am I doing first? Are you gonna _watch_ me kiss your boyfriend and girlfriend? That’s kind of weird,” Eddie frowns, even as Bev hands him his own shot.

“Why don’t you take your shot and chill the fuck out?” Bev raises her little cup. Ben follows, and finally Eddie; they tap them together in mid-air.

“To healthy relationships,” Ben says earnestly.

“To the new year,” Eddie says.

“To my boyfriend’s bangin’ bod and wet ass p—”

“Beverly,” both Eddie and Ben interrupt her: Eddie, moderately scandalized yet ultimately unsurprised; Ben, blushing but seemingly flattered. Bev rolls her eyes and knocks the shot back.

Eddie and Ben follow. The artificial blue raspberry flavor is, unfortunately, not strong enough to cover up the kick of the truly foul rum Bev used.

“First dibs on the twink,” Bev decides for the three of them. She takes Eddie’s little cup, stacks it with her own on top of the minifridge. “C’mere, you.”

She takes Eddie’s jaw, the dull points of her fingernails digging into his cheek, and steps into his space. Like Stan had, Bev waits for Eddie to seal the deal: she leans in and Eddie can smell blue raspberry on her breath, see the stark stain of food coloring on her lower lip.

Eddie presses their mouths together, but Bev immediately takes charge, tilts Eddie’s head to an angle she likes. Bev kisses enthusiastically, draws Eddie’s bottom lip between her own and sets her teeth against it, breathes in Eddie’s sigh. Unsurprisingly, she slips him a little tongue for the challenge.

It’s good. Not earth-shattering, or anything, but Bev is both one of his oldest friends and one of the best kissers out of their ragtag bunch, which shakes out to an entirely adequate experience. Eddie loves her a lot, even when she pinches one of his three exposed chest hairs.

Ben giggles in the background and Eddie breaks off, swats Bev’s hand away. “Okay, okay, we’re done.”

Bev pushes him toward Ben, licks her lips. “His turn. Be nice.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Eddie’s out of breath, and Ben’s hands on his hips don’t help one bit. Square-shouldered, soft-sided, easygoing Ben nuzzles Eddie’s cheek, kisses the corner of Eddie’s mouth. Eddie has to chase him for a real kiss: where Bev led, Ben’s happy to follow, opening up for Eddie, letting Eddie’s hands wander down Ben’s broad chest. 

When Ben makes a surprised little sound, Eddie pulls both his mouth and his hands away, hovering. “Sorry, is that okay?”

Ben leans in to give Eddie a quick peck. He smiles, incredibly soft, and Eddie’s heart does a little flip on Bev’s behalf. “More than okay,” Ben grins.

Eddie drops his hands, offers Ben a smile back. “You, uh. Either of you seen Bill? I was supposed to get him a while ago but then I sort of walked into Mike and then I had to go to my room and contemplate my life choices.”

“And put on one of your boyfriend’s shirts, we know. We covered this,” Bev nods, wraps an arm around Ben’s middle.

“Are you gonna help me find Bill or not?” Eddie opens the minifridge door and sure enough, there’s more shots stacked in between cans of pamplemousse and key lime. Eddie snatches one up for the road before Bev can shut the door on his arm.

“I saw him coming downstairs a little while ago but I haven’t seen him in a minute,” Ben offers. He may be the only competent person Eddie knows.

“You’re the only competent person I know,” Eddie says, pats Ben’s shoulder. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to go win a made up challenge.”

Bill Denbrough is a slippery little fucker. It really doesn’t help that his freshman brother is floating around too and they look exactly the same from behind, even if George is a solid foot taller than Bill. One moment Eddie thinks he’s got him; the next, Georgie is turning around, cheeks covered in glitter, a disposable vape hanging from the corner of his mouth. Eddie knocks back his second jell-o shot and frowns at him. Georgie ultimately does not give a shit.

With twenty minutes left until midnight, Eddie finds Bill in the mostly-empty kitchen. Stan’s cheese board has been reduced to a few sad, waxy rinds and a soggy Triscuit. Bill’s rummaging through the cabinets, mumbling something about oatmeal cream pies under his breath.

Eddie clears his throat.

“Hello,” Bill says, spares Eddie a look over his shoulder, grinning. “I need snacks.”

“Don’t you know where shit is in this kitchen?” Eddie can’t help himself: he starts stacking discarded plastic cups, wipes up a minor spill on the counter. Bill, for his part, keeps staring at the mugs like if he looks hard enough they’ll turn into snacks.

Bill frowns. “I forgot.”

Eddie sets down a stack of used cups. “I’ll trade you snacks for a kiss,” he offers.

Bill shuts the cabinet doors, leans on the edge of the counter. “D’you wanna do that?”

Leave it to Bill—who, by Eddie’s estimates, may very well be somewhere between five and eight shots _and_ a couple of bowls in—to make sure everyone is copacetic before he puts his mouth anywhere. Eddie almost tells him about the challenge then and there: something about the open, earnest look in Bill’s glassy eyes makes him want to spill all his secrets, which is both scary and comforting. “I don’t not want to do that,” Eddie says carefully. He reaches in a cupboard for an unopened tray of Oreos he’ll have to remember to replace for Patty. “Oreos?”

Bill pushes off the counter to close in on him. He takes the package, inspects the expiration date. Eddie’s starting to get antsy when Bill finally nods. “Yeah. Bring it in, Eddie Spaghetti.”

In a matter of seconds, Eddie has a package of Oreos in his hand and Bill’s hands in his hair. Bill leans in, hovers close enough for a few seconds that Eddie can feel his warm breath on his mouth before the kiss. It’s tender but messy; Bill slips his tongue past Eddie’s lips and Eddie lets him, groans and drops the cookies half off the edge of the counter to grab Bill by the hips, swallow a little whine, and _god_ this is a lot, this is _Bill_ —

Eddie laughs as he breaks away. Somewhere in the past year, he picked up Richie’s horrible habit of giggling to diffuse a situation.

Bill pouts at him. It doesn’t last long: he picks up the Oreos, tears into the package. “Tease. Tell me where Richie’s snacks are.”

Eddie wipes the spit off his chin with the back of his hand. “There’s Klondike bars in the freezer.”

Bill has a whole cookie in his mouth when he plants another kiss on Eddie, a little off-center. “Genius,” he mumbles, crumbs flying. “Merry Christmas to all.”

“Christmas was a week ago,” Eddie says, but Bill’s already diving headfirst into the freezer. It doesn’t matter. That’s six.

That’s six, which means he fucking _won_ , which means now he gets _Richie_.

Less than ten minutes from midnight, a crowd has started gathering in the living room. Patty’s wielding a gallon bottle of sparkling wine while standing on the coffee table, doling out waterfall sips of it to anyone willing or drunk enough to be okay with getting some of it in their eye in the process. When Mike makes eye contact with Eddie from across the room, looking around the crowd, Eddie jerks his head back toward the kitchen and gets a thumbs up. Off by the stairs, Bev sits on top of the minifridge with Ben standing between her legs, leaning against her shoulder and singing along to Shawn Mendes on the TV, Bev’s blue-stained fingers resting under the hem of Ben’s t-shirt. And Eddie can’t see his face from here, but he’d recognize the back of Richie’s head anywhere—sitting on the couch next to Stan, cheering as Patty pours prosecco over Audra Phillips’ face.

Eddie loves his friends. He really does. He loves that they’re loud and ridiculous and effortlessly funny, and that they indulge his neuroses and Richie’s outlandish ideas. He loves that they’re game to let him explore the middle ground between Closeted And Miserable and Happily Dating The Love Of His Life. He loves the microcosm of good and safe and happy they’ve assembled in this shitty little college house, and loves seeing another year through surrounded by them, drunk and alive.

Eddie loves his friends, but he’s not in love with any of them the way he’s in love with Richie. Eddie’s had fun kissing his friends, but now the only person he wants to kiss is Richie.

He squeezes through the crowd toward the couch and then he melts all over Richie’s shoulders, tucks his face into Richie’s sweaty neck. Richie makes a surprised little sound, hands coming up to Eddie’s shoulders. “Hi!”

“I won,” Eddie says, right under Richie’s ear. The tv says he has three minutes to spare.

“You did?” Richie leans back to look at Eddie’s face. Eddie nods, and Richie shakes him off, stands up. “Come on,” he says, holding out his hand.

To the side, Stan raises his voice and his own bottle of prosecco. “Pattycake! He did it!”

“To slutty Eddie!” Patty announces. Once again, Eddie’s face goes warm.

Richie pulls him away as Patty raises the massive bottle to her lips, Audra and Stan and even Georgie fucking Denbrough cheering her on. Before Eddie can register what’s happening, Richie’s jiggling the doorknob on their bedroom door and dragging Eddie in, crowding into his space, getting his hands under Eddie’s ass. Eddie hops up, wraps his legs around Richie’s middle, and Richie stumbles the three steps to their bed, plops down with a lapful of Eddie, his glasses knocked askew. Eddie could eat him alive. He settles for petting Richie’s hair back, fixing his glasses. Taking him in. “I did it, Rich. I fucking crushed it.”

Richie keeps a hand on Eddie’s ass and brings the other up to his jaw. He cups Eddie’s chin delicately, gently, and thumbs over Eddie’s lips like he might be able to find a trace of their friends there. “Tonight I learned I’m a jealous fuck,” he exhales, presses his forehead to Eddie’s. “Stan was right, though, with the whole thing about coming back at the end.” He gives Eddie’s ass a friendly squeeze.

“You were jealous?” Eddie grins. He knows. Richie spent the whole night all but avoiding him.

“Yeah, Eds. Let’s keep this game to a minimum for the sake of world peace, alright?” Richie drops his hand from Eddie’s chin to fiddle with the collar of Eddie’s—his—shirt.

“I don’t want you kissing anyone else either,” Eddie says, softly.

They almost make it to midnight—Eddie can hear their friends counting down outside their door, still a solid twenty seconds out, when he wraps his arms around Richie’s neck and presses their lips together.

**Author's Note:**

> fight me on twitter @messwithlove


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